The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Monday, September 17, 2007
One of Those Days
The babysitter is 30 minutes late. At 4:30 p.m., stuck in the house with a hyperactive preschooler and an over-tired thee-month old, it feels like an eternity.
I’m desperate for a few minutes for myself.
My shoulders are aching from bouncing the baby. Kai, my three-year old, has piled pillows in the middle of the living room to make a “Superman house.” Why is it that Superman can cover the living room floor with toys in seconds, but can’t reverse this action?
Finally, the babysitter arrives and I can’t find my car keys. After three laps around the house, two frantic digs through the diaper bag and a search through the recycling bin, I find them hanging on the nail by the door where they belong. The babysitter stares at me with an expression somewhere between fear and pity.
As I slip on my flip-flops, Kai decides that he doesn’t want me to leave. “Because I really, really love you!” he says. I bribe him with a Popsicle even though he’s already had two today.
Just eight minutes from my double soy latte, the traffic stops. I watch the signal light ahead turn green and then red and then green again. My cell phone is in my purse in the trunk. No chance to catch up with friends. I click on the radio. Maybe I can improve my mind and listen to something other than the “Star Wars” theme song. National Public Radio is in the midst of a fund drive. I don’t recognize any of the music playing on the other stations.
Pathetic.
At Starbucks, my favorite table is taken, the barista forgets my drink order and the “Summer of Love” music track is beyond irritating. By the time I snap the lid on my latte and realize I forgot my pen and notebook, it has been an hour since the babysitter arrived.
But, I’m alone.
I have an hour to myself before bath and bedtimes begin. I take a couple of yoga breaths (the kind I forget to do when I’m with the kids) and find a seat by the window. I dig into the sandy crevices of my purse and find a green crayon and the empty backside of Kai’s preschool snack schedule.
It’ll do.
By Maya Creedman Ho
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I’m desperate for a few minutes for myself.
My shoulders are aching from bouncing the baby. Kai, my three-year old, has piled pillows in the middle of the living room to make a “Superman house.” Why is it that Superman can cover the living room floor with toys in seconds, but can’t reverse this action?
Finally, the babysitter arrives and I can’t find my car keys. After three laps around the house, two frantic digs through the diaper bag and a search through the recycling bin, I find them hanging on the nail by the door where they belong. The babysitter stares at me with an expression somewhere between fear and pity.
As I slip on my flip-flops, Kai decides that he doesn’t want me to leave. “Because I really, really love you!” he says. I bribe him with a Popsicle even though he’s already had two today.
Just eight minutes from my double soy latte, the traffic stops. I watch the signal light ahead turn green and then red and then green again. My cell phone is in my purse in the trunk. No chance to catch up with friends. I click on the radio. Maybe I can improve my mind and listen to something other than the “Star Wars” theme song. National Public Radio is in the midst of a fund drive. I don’t recognize any of the music playing on the other stations.
Pathetic.
At Starbucks, my favorite table is taken, the barista forgets my drink order and the “Summer of Love” music track is beyond irritating. By the time I snap the lid on my latte and realize I forgot my pen and notebook, it has been an hour since the babysitter arrived.
But, I’m alone.
I have an hour to myself before bath and bedtimes begin. I take a couple of yoga breaths (the kind I forget to do when I’m with the kids) and find a seat by the window. I dig into the sandy crevices of my purse and find a green crayon and the empty backside of Kai’s preschool snack schedule.
It’ll do.
By Maya Creedman Ho
Labels: Maya Creedman Ho
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